A Tire Swing Tale
by SongbirdNoodles
Summary: Luke builds a tireswing for 11-year-old Rory. Pre-series only.


**Tire Swing Tale**

A disagreement had broken out at the table by the window. "Mom," a girl of around eleven was saying, desperately, "I want a swing! We have a proper yard now, and a proper yard comes with a swing, and they're not expensive and it's all I want for my birthday-"

"Rory," her mother interrupts, "That's enough. Seriously, hon, you I don't like talking to you when you're acting your age."

Luke, who was handing out Danishes at the counter, moves towards the register and closer to the two . He recognizes them both now- the girl comes in to buy ice cream or Danishes after school sometimes for Lane Kim, and the mother was that pretty young woman who had given him that horoscope a couple of weeks ago. Though she'd been in the place a few times since then, and always yammering about her daughter, he hadn't realized that said daughter was the same little girl who had told him he made "the most excellent pumpkin pie I have ever tasted, Sir" when he'd handed out treats at the Stars Hollow Spooktacular last Halloween.

"But, Mom," the girl says, chewing on a French fry desperately, "please!"

"Rory, I've told you a million times, I can buy you a swing, I can make a swing look pretty, I can glue rhinestones and feathers onto your swing, but I. Can't. Hang. It. I can't make it swing. That requires a screwdriver and a hammer and nails and one of those ugly yellow Village People hats, so unless you want the cop, the cowboy, the Indian, the biker and the soldier moving in-"

Luke snorts to himself while counting out change for Babette. There was something about her. Lorelai, she'd said her name was, something about her, about the way she talked and laughed and… _something_.

"Luke, sugar, you gave me a twenty instead of a five," Babette screeches, bringing him firmly back to reality. "Can't say I blame ya, that kind of distraction hanging around the place," She gives an enormous, pointed wink. "Hey girls."

"Hey, Babette," the mother and daughter chorus, mid-argument.

"You got good taste, sugar," Babette tells him a stage whisper that practically shatters his eardrums. "Bye, girls."

"Mom, seriously!" The girl cries in frustration, waving a French fry at Babette's retreating figure distractedly. "You can talk a police man out of giving you a ticket for speeding but you can't put up a swing for your own kid? This is ridiculous!"

"You know what, kid? If you find someone who will put up the swing, I promise I'll get you one for your birthday. Now can we please stop talking about this!"

"Fine!" The daughter declares, resolutely pushing back her chair and walking to the counter. "Excuse me, Mr. Luke?"

He grins down at her. "You don't have to call me that."

"Well, I don't know you're last name," she explains politely.

"It's Danes." Staring at the coffee he's supposed to be pouring, trying not to look at the kid in front of him.

"Okay. Mr. Danes, Sir-"

"No," he interrupts, "you can just call me Luke, okay? No Mister and no Sir."

"But, my Mom says I should call grown-ups Mr. and Mrs., except when they're my grandparents' friends. I get to call them whatever I want. Even bad words, but I wouldn't do that." She giggles to herself. "Are you sure it's okay if I call you Luke, Mr. Danes?"

He shudders. "It definitely is. You want more coffee for your Mom?"

"And me! Mom says there's no point in stopping me from drinking coffee anymore, I'm a co-addict just through living with her. Do you know what co-addiction means, Mr. Da- I mean, Luke?"

"Um." Luke just stares at her, finally managing: "You shouldn't be drinking coffee. It's bad for you. So is eating junk food, by the way."

"But," The kid points out with a sly grin, "you sell coffee and junk food! This is your diner! That makes you a hy-po-crite. That was one of my spelling words this week."

"Great."

"Anyway," she says, smiling at him more broadly now, "I wanted to ask you if you can maybe help me with something?"

"Um." He hesitated. "That depends, I guess."

"Can you put up a swing? You fixed the gazebo roof when Kirk fell through it at the Spooktacular last year, and it looked like you knew what you what you were doing. And I want a swing for my birthday, only I can't put it up because I'm too little, and neither can my Mom even though she can do everything in the world -well, except this, I guess- and I thought you could help me?"

"Really?" He raises his eyebrows at her, and finds himself thoroughly unable to tell her to go away, quit bothering him, or do any of the ten other unpleasant things he usually does when people under twelve approach him. She's looking at him with those big blue eyes and grinning hopefully, a little nervously, and he just cannot help himself.

"Please?" She adds, quietly and a little less brightly. "Me and Mom- well- we don't know a lot of boys who know boy stuff. Like putting up swings. So if you could help out, that'd be great."

"Sure," he says, shaking his head to himself. "No, I can help you, it's not a big deal. I can come by Saturday, how's that?"

Her eyes widen in surprise. "Really? Thanks! That's perfect! Thank you soooo much, Mr. Da- I mean, Luke."

"Hey," he calls after her as she spins to retreat towards her mother, who was following the exchange with a broad grin, "aren't you a little too old for a swing?"

She turns towards him, seriously shaking her head. "No, see, I don't want it to swing on it- I mean, maybe- but I just want to sit on my swing and read. I've always wanted a swing -we used to live at the Independence Inn, and now that we have our own house I want a swing so I can be one of those girls who sits on their swing and reads. Like in the books, or in old paintings."

"That's fair," he smiles. "I'll come by Saturday afternoon. You live next door to Babette, right?"

As she scampers away, looking pleased with herself, he overhears her mother scolding her that you shouldn't ask strangers to put up swings for you. "And I've never been prouder of you in my life, kiddo."

A few minutes later, the girl rushes out of the diner with two donuts wrapped in napkins for Lane Kim, and her mother walks up to the register to pay.

"You," she tells him, with a smile just as bright as her daughter's, "just made a little girl's day."

"Hard to say no to her," he mutters. "That's sixteen fifty."

"Listen, if you don't want to do this-"

"No, it's fine."

"Are you sure?" She makes him look her in the eye. "I realize she kind of ambushed you into it, I mean I'm sure you can think of a better way to spend your Saturday afternoon."

He shrugs. "I'd probably just be here, or watching baseball or something. Plus, I said I would, it'd be a pretty crappy thing to not help her out now. Oh, and, hey, you don't need to go out and buy a swing, I can just make one."

She stares. "You can make a swing?"

"Just… yes. I can. You can drink ten cups of coffee without your head exploding."

"You're a real star, do you know that?" She smiles at him warmly.

He tries very hard not to watch her as she walks out of the diner, and crosses the square.

--

Eleven-year-old Rory Gilmore had been what her mother called "a supersized pest" all day. They had been spending the morning at the Independence Inn, and three minutes past noon, Rory had barged towards the front desk. "Okay, Mom. We have to go home now."

"I'll be ready in hour. Go ask Sookie if you can have some lunch."

"Mom!"

Lorelai had looked up from the reservations book she'd been making notes in with some surprise. "Rory Leigh Gilmore, did you just stamp your foot?"

"Mom, we have to go home now! Luke's coming to put in my swing today, remember?"

Lorelai had laughed. "Rory, honey, he said he's coming this afternoon. It's like… twelve o'clock or something."

"It's four past twelve, which makes it after noon. _After noon_, Mom. Come on!"

Lorelai had shot her daughter a very apologetic look, cowering under the glare she recieved"Rory, I have to work for a bit. Hey, why don't you ask Sookie if she can make you some cookies that you can give to Luke when he comes?"

Rory had let out a very frustrated sigh. "We already made cookies this morning, Mom."

"Well… did you ice them?"

"Mom, Luke's a boy. He won't like cookies with icing. Mom, please. I just don't want to be late for when he comes."

"You're really excited about this swing thing, aren't you, hon?" Lorelai had sighed. "Fine. Come on. But if he doesn't show until five thirty, don't get annoyed with me."

Now it was three, and Rory was sitting on the porch steps with Jane Eyre, looking up hopefully every time a car drove through their quiet street. Finally, a large pick-up slowed down on their drive way, and Luke, wearing his trademark flannel and hat but looking incredibly out of place not being at the diner, got out of it.

"Luke!" Rory called, dropping her book and jumping to her feet. "Hi, Luke!"

"Hey, Rory," he called, and she was pleased to find he remembered her name. "You ready for this?"

"Uh-huh!" She turned towards the house and stuck her head inside the door. "Mom!" She yelled inside. "Luke's here!" Not bothering to wait for an answer, she descended the porch steps towards the truck, but then stopped in her tracks. Her impulse had been to give Luke a big hug, but he's just kind of standing there, so she stops. "Do you need anything? We don't really have tools, but Mom says scotch tape should do the trick."

Luke laughs at that, and says, "Come on, you can help me unload." He opens the latch of the truck, and the first thing she sees is a huge tire with three hooks stuck inside.

"What's that for?" She asks, giggling at the idea of how funny someone would look driving a car with wheels like that through Stars Hollow.

Luke hands her a toolbox. "It's your swing."

Rory gapes. "But it's a tire!"

"It's a tire swing," Luke explains.

"Like at the playground?" Rory's eyes light up. "I didn't know you could have one of those in your _backyard_!"

"Well, you can," Luke grins. "I thought it'd be better for lounging and reading, 'cause it's more comfortable and you don't fall off so easily. And I used a big tire so your Mom can fit as well."

Rory just stares and stares.

"Do you like it?" Luke asks, suddenly apprehensive. "We can make a normal kind of swing if you like."

Rory thinks that this is the first time a boy -well, a man- has been this nice to her. Ever. "It's perfect," she tells him. Turning into the direction of the house, she yells: "MOM! I GOT A TIRE SWING!"

--

"I don't think I've seen her this happy since Andrew made the bookstore bigger," Lorelai smiles, handing Luke a beer and peering out of the window. After just less than a hour of Luke puttering around while Rory bounced around him in complete amazement and she sat on the grass needling him, the need is done. She and Rory have gone for an inaugural swing already, with many delighted squeals, and they even managed to get Luke to try it out, and though he looked sufficiently pained to keep his dignity intact, they both knew he was enjoying himself. Both of them have thanked Luke profusely, and she's even offered to pay for the tire and the rope –which he declined, decidedly, muttering something about every kid deserving a decent tire swing-

Her daughter is happily curled up on her tire swing with Jane Eyre, one foot keeping a steady up-and-down rythem, the other tucked under her angly, pre-teen body. For a second, all she can think about is how quickly Rory's growing up. With a small sigh, she turns to the man leaning against her kitchen counter. "Thank you, so, so much for this."

"Not a big deal," he smiles back at her.

"On the contrary, it was a huge deal," she corrects gently. "Here, have another cookie, they're good. Sookie made them, she's the new chef at the Independence Inn, and she's incredible." She smiles. "There's something about this town. I'm not from here, I grew up in Hartford, and let me tell you, people do not build tire swings for total strangers there. They hire someone to ship an original antique swing from France, but they don't build their own tire swings." She stares back at Rory, with a smile. "Thanks, again."

"You really are welcome," he grins. "She's a great kid."

"She really is. I have no idea how that happened."

He gives her a small smile. "I have a faint idea."

Lorelai feels herself blush. "Flattery _and_ tire swings? _And_ the perfect coffee? How perfect are you?"

"I'm not that perfect," he mutters.

Lorelai watches Rory give her tire swing another kick, a small smile on her face. "Yes, you are."


End file.
